


Corpusculum

by kashmir_castiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholic Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baby Jack Kline, Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Dean Winchester is Jack Kline's Parent, Emotional Hurt, Episode: s13e01 Lost and Found, Grieving Dean Winchester, Hurt, I was going for sad, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Protective Dean Winchester, Resurrected Castiel (Supernatural), Resurrection, Sam Winchester is Jack Kline's Parent, Temporary Character Death, Widowed Dean Winchester, enjoy?, i suppose this is sad, no beta we die like dean's will to live when cas is gone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29886369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashmir_castiel/pseuds/kashmir_castiel
Summary: Corpusculum: (latin) little or puny body; atom; used as a term of endearmentAlternate widower arc with baby!Jack.
Relationships: Castiel & Jack Kline, Castiel & Jack Kline & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Jack Kline & Dean Winchester, Jack Kline & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jack Kline & Sam Winchester
Comments: 19
Kudos: 37





	Corpusculum

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this has been in my head for some time now, so i decided to write it down? i like pain, apparently.  
> i'm not a native speaker and also i'm inexperienced, so please don't hesitate to correct my mistakes/tell me what can be improved (probably a lot :/).  
> i hope y'all willl enjoy this, even if just a little.  
> (you can also find me on tumblr @https-castiel)

The ground is cool under his knees. The wind sweeps over the sand and makes the shape of burned, broken wings smudge. He looks up and sees the sky, as dark as the inside of his heart. There are stars there, glistening on the firmament. They also fill the space behind his eyelids; small sparks making him dizzy. The moon casts light on the water, and the surface shines. Fowles was right. “A dead thing over a dying thing.” Now, his heart is the moon. It’s dark side. Unfathomable and unknowable. Never seeing the sun, stunted. It lies on the ground next to him, torn out of his chest. Unmoving.

He gets up, eventually. His knees hurt, from the cold and because he’s not young anymore. Actually, he’s never been nor felt older than he does now. His death approaches, washes over him and fills him with numbness as small parts of him, piece by piece, die away. He feels it in his bones, as the cold of the night pierces his frame. He thinks about the way the blade pierced through Cas’ chest; its cool, sharp stillness bathing in the light of his death.

Dean pulls out his gun and flicks the safety off.

Warmth swathes him as he enters the darkness of the house, but his senses don’t seem to register it. The lights are probably broken; Dean vaguely remembers a flare-up that made them go out, but he wouldn’t dare to turn them on anyway. He goes upstairs, to Kelly’s room, his jaw stiff from anticipation.

He opens the door, swiftly and suddenly, and points his gun at the silhouette sitting on the bed.

His brother looks up, startled, and extends his hand in a calming gesture.

“Dean, it’s alright”, he says, but Dean doesn’t move his fingers from where they rest on the trigger.

The baby in Sam’s arms coos softly.

They break into an argument. Dean starts yelling; he won’t lower his fucking gun because this is _Lucifer’s son_ , for fuck’s sake. It’s a kid, Dean. It’s an abomination! So was I, remember? That’s different! How?! You weren’t born that way! Dean– Does it have powers? Yes, Dean, I’ve seen his eyes, but– It’s the Antichrist, Sam! He could wipe Chicago with a sneeze! Kelly thought he was good. She’s dead, Sam! _It_ killed her. But Cas thought–

Dean storms out of the room and slams the door behind him. He hears the child crying.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~**

The dawn breaks quietly, very professionally unbothered with all that happened. In juxtaposition to the turmoil of the night, it’s so very tranquil. Birds sing carelessly and a light breeze fills the air. Air that some people will never get to breathe again, while _it_ will, Dean thinks bitterly.

Sam eventually walks down to the living room and finds him sitting completely still, just like the body that’s lying on the table, covered with a cloth. 

Then the brothers talk, and this time they’re civil with one another because a new day has come and they realize that screaming won’t change anything. Exhaustion hangs in the air, drowsy, the way it always is in the early hours of morning. It’s like the light that seeps through the window; fresh and soft, but this time it bears no hope.

They agree, for once. They have to buy food; for the child and for themselves. Dean gives in to Sam’s reasoning without much of a fuss; they have to take the baby to the bunker because that way it won’t hurt anyone nor will it be used by anything and God knows what’s looking for it. There is no-one to carve sigils on Jack’s ribs, hiding him from other angels, and they can’t exactly tattoo an infant, for Christ’s sake. They figure the bunker’s warding will have to do. If that fails, well, they’ll have to make it up as they go.

Dean takes the car, even though he probably shouldn’t be driving, but things have to be done and he won’t be the one staying with the child. He’s glad that the engine roars loud enough to drown out the thoughts that float in his head.

He arrives in the town and sees living, breathing people around him, and something breaks in him. So, he turns and breaks something in return. It’s a habit of his. Sometime ago it was the people he loved. This time it’s a wooden wall plaque, hanging on the back door of a bar. No-one will miss it.

Prayer is a sign of faith. But not in his case. To him, prayer is just begging. He doesn’t believe, not anymore. Not when he remembers Crowley’s eyes burning, his skeleton visible in the light of his essence leaving the body that was never really his. Not when he remembers his mother’s yelp as the Devil took her with him. Not when he remembers lifting a body from the ground; deadweight making him slouch as he positioned it on his shoulders. Not when he remembers laying it on the table and wishing it were him. And so, begging is all he has left.

“We’ve lost everything,” he admits. “And now you’re gonna bring him back.”

The ragged skin on his knuckles stings and there’s no-one left to answer his prayer.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Somehow unsurprisingly, the grocery run turns into a blood bath. Dean realizes that they’ll have to hurry; if the angels are this close then it’s just a matter of time before they finally find what they're looking for. He also realizes that the child must have warded itself somehow, probably out of instinct. Not ideally, since the angels felt his power and its proximity, but enough to make the search for him more difficult. If Dean had time, he’d dwell on it and think what exactly the child is able to do.

“Almost anything,” the angel tells him.

He stills. "Anything?"

She seems to relish that.

“Oh, sweet. Castiel? He’s dead. All the way dead. Because of you.”

He kills her and two others that came with her. He’s good at this. Killing angels.

He learns that the sheriff’s kid will live. Dean doesn’t know how to even begin to explain everything.

“My name is Dean Winchester,” he starts. “I hunt monsters. You ever seen a horror movie?”

The sheriff nods slowly.

“Like that.”

She hesitates. “So, you’re some kind of… superhero?”

Dean feels bile rise in his throat. “I’m just a guy doing the job.”

There was a time when he’d say it with sureness and pride. Now, he doesn’t even know what that means. Not really and not anymore.

“What… what was that?” she asks after a moment, her eyes searching his face for any signs that all of this is a joke. He finds himself wishing it were.

“That… those were angels.” He hears her inhale in disbelief and remembers his own, almost a decade ago.

“Yeah,” he looks down. “Angels are real, too.”

**~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Dean grows to be glad that he bought whiskey a lot sooner than he initially anticipated. He spills some of it on his hand and shakes his fingers as the burning in his knuckles fades. He gets in the car and squeezes the steering wheel. The skin on his palms pulls uncomfortably and his back aches. He doesn’t know whether that’s because he’s old and tired or because he just got whacked with a wooden rack by a wavelength of celestial intent with a bad attitude.

When he gets back to the lake house, it’s already early afternoon. Sam eyes Dean’s bruised face and bloodied hands but says nothing, and instead ineptly tries to feed Jack with warmed-up milk. Dean makes dinner because Sam asks him to. He doesn’t swallow a bite, but his brother has to eat. He’s had a long day, trying to lull the Antichrist.

He approaches Dean later on and doesn’t mention the now cold plate laying on the counter. He sees Dean take an ax from the trunk, and asks if they are really going to do this. It’s Cas, after all. Maybe they could, he doesn’t know, pray? God has brought people back before.

Dean snaps at his brother. God’s not listening, Sam. He doesn’t care.

He spends the rest of the afternoon chopping down trees. He’s weary and every joint in his body aches, but he doesn’t stop until he has enough wood to build a pyre.

Sam approaches him wordlessly and takes his share of sticks. They build it together. Once they’re finished, Sam goes upstairs to prepare Kelly’s body for the funeral.

Dean walks into the house, reluctantly, dragging the moment, his body trying to oppose his actions, and approaches the table.

He uncovers Cas’ face and regrets it immediately, as he finds himself unable to look away. Something hot and numbing fills his insides; his teeth rattle and his fingertips burn. He puts the cloth back in its place.

He takes the curtains, yellow and soft, and rips them into pieces. As he wraps them around Cas’ legs, another part of him gives in and breaks and he has to stop. He breathes; one, two, three seconds. Then he straightens up, undraws the cloth once more, and puts his hands on Cas’ chest, searching.

In the breast pockets of the trench coat, he finds a pen, a fake FBI badge, an old photo of himself and Sam, and a mixtape.

He finishes wrapping the body and carries it to the pyre, his shoulders shaking with effort. Sam is already waiting for him.

Dean retrieves gasoline from the car and splashes the wood with it. For a very brief moment, he thinks about spilling it all over himself.

Sam is standing a few feet away from him. The child he holds fumblingly in his arms begins to cry as if it knew what the sharp, suffocating smell of petrol foreruns.

Dean fishes a zippo out of his pocket and tries to light it for a few seconds, with little success. Maybe the lighter is as reluctant to do this as he is.

Sam clears his throat.

“Do you wanna say something?”

Dean says nothing.

Sam begins a speech, trying to make his voice soothing, to calm the child down. Or maybe himself. (Or Dean.) It’s all short, concise. He tells all of it as if he were teaching Jack what to say. Dean doesn’t stop him. There’s a thought in the back of his mind, reminding him that if all goes the way he thinks it will, the child will get to attend a lot of funerals in the future. 

Sam says thank you. He says he’s sorry. He says he hopes that they’re all somewhere without sadness and pain. Somewhere better. He says goodbye.

Jack’s crying becomes unbearable; his shrill squall piercing the quiet of the evening.

Dean grits his teeth. He shoves the lighter back into his pocket and takes the child away from Sam’s hands. His brother glances at him with surprise but sighs softly with apparent relief.

Dean gently rocks the baby until after a few moments it stops bawling. If the child can pull itself together, he thinks, then so can he. Even if there isn’t anyone to hold him.

Dean swallows, licks his lips, and forces the words out of his mouth.

“Well, goodbye, Cas.”

He breathes in shakily and goes on. It’s easier now, for some reason. “Goodbye, Kelly; Goodbye, Crowley… Goodbye, mom.”

Sam flinches. “We don’t know if she’s–”

“Yes, we do,” Dean says, because it's true. “We do, Sam. Lucifer killed her. The moment he realized we trapped his ass, he killed her. You know he did.” He clenches his jaw. “She’s gone. They’re all gone.”

He reaches for the zippo once more, and this time the flame appears at an instant. He tosses it onto the pyre and watches as sparks fly and as the fire licks the wood, slowly devouring it along with the bodies.

Everything, even nature, goes quiet and still. Only the flames bicker, bright and warm, but Dean is not close enough and he only feels cold.

He shifts his arms and adjusts his hold on the baby. A new life surrounded by death and havoc. Dean holds it gently, the way he held his brother so many years ago. Fire surrounded him then, and fire surrounds him now.

Smoke makes the night alive with its warm-toned, bitter cloud that plumes from the pyre and vanishes in the dark sky. The smell, horrible odor of burning flesh, spreads in the air, and Dean, even though he’s smelled it his entire life, feels close to stifling. For a brief moment, he expects the child to start crying again, but it remains calm. It was born to live through things like this, Dean thinks. It was born to watch the world burn.

A horrid thought appears in his mind, a thought telling him to toss the baby into the fire. He doesn’t, and a shudder goes down his spine. A child burning alongside its mother. Another life lost because of him. Sam would never forgive him and too much death has already happened.

So, he watches the fire. He watches as the last remains of lives lost become lost, too.

_END OF CHAPTER ONE_

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what i'm doing. plotting is a nightmare. there's more to come and i think that later chapters will get more emotional. comments are very appreciated <3


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